


morning after

by orphan_account



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M, Morning After, and a train wreck, axel being a sap, roxas being a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:06:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he picks up this blondie he may have been stalking for two years something something, and his heart definitely isn't going crazy the morning after, no. There's just his mouth being a vile traitor spitting bullshit about maine coons (that's just really a metaphor though) and he really needs a fucking fag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	morning after

**Author's Note:**

> Dunno. Characterisation is probably shit, haven't written the boys in ages. Poor Axel.

“You don’t even know my name, do you.”

“I do,” Axel says, leaning back against the headrest lazily. “It’s Blondie.”

 _Your name is Roxas. You study psychology, because you are, very probably, fucked up. You have an odd relationship with coffee. On good days you’ll drink it with four spoons of sugar and two shots of milk. On bad days, you won’t drink coffee but hot chocolate. If it’s a really bad day, you’ll take hot chocolate with cream._ He says none of this, only eyes his fingernails idly, lets his head tilt to the side to convey utter nonchalance. Nonchalance is crucial here. _I know if you knew that I knew you the way I do you’d punch me in the face and probably skip town or something._

Roxas’ face remains impassive. He’s clearly unimpressed with Axel’s quip.

“Right,” he says, shrugging. Doesn’t bother to tell Axel he’s called Roxas. Not that it would be of much use; Axel already knows, of course. Knows he’s called Roxas since the first day he’d seen him, two years, four months and some odd days ago, when uni started and the sight of his ruffled blond hair and sky eyes and the _fuck it all and you too_ attitude so plain on his face had set fire to Axel’s heart, keeping it ablaze and close to incineration every single day.

If Roxas knew any of that, Axel’s quite sure he’d have to get corrective facial surgery. For all that he’s tiny, Roxas’ hands are strong. The red welts on Axel’s back attest to that.

Roxas bends clean at the waist before Axel, careless about how the cheeks of his arse show boldly, firm, plump curves visible from underneath the small red frilly slip he’s wearing. The swell of his balls is visible between his pale legs, and Axel remembers licking them, remembers them soft and rough under his tongue. Goose pimples shiver up his forearms.

“So what’re you doing,” Roxas suddenly says as he jumps up to drag his trousers up his legs. His fingers fumble with the zipper, and Axel tries hard not to stare at them, fascinated.

The fact that Roxas actually enquires after him is enough to make his heart speed up. Fucking nerves. He needs a fag.

“Businessman,” he says, ever the bullshitter, because while Roxas may feign interest in him, Axel knows better. This boy doesn’t give a shit. His (not) stalking taught him that. He supposes it’s just really the boy’s peculiar way of saying ‘thank you for the two orgasms, and by the way, even though your tongue produces shit when you’re sober, it’s sort of skilled in licking balls.’

Axel fumbles around for the fags.

Roxas snorts.

Beside the stilted groan Axel got out of him the night before—about five hours back—it’s the most reactive response the boy has given him so far.

“So you’re unemployed.”

Axel barks out a laugh, fingers stilling.

“I’m businessman,” he repeats, leaning back against the headboard with his unbusy, free arm behind his head. He’s a skinny little bugger, yeah, but at least his shoulders are wide. The wild-night look in his hair also does things for his face, he’s been told and has confirmed it himself by subtly checking himself out in the mirror this morning when he went for a piss and the blond nuisance was snoring in his bed.

 _Snoring_. Little snuffling sounds. Axel had sat on his hands til they’d been stiff so he wouldn’t _pet_ Roxas, because just how disgusting and _unmanning_ was—

“So what do you do all day then?”

The mental blather crashes to a halt in his head. Axel glances up at Roxas, now dressed (and what a shame that is), and stares. Is that _interest?_ Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck_. FUCK. What—

Axel breathes in. _Caaaalm, Axel. Calm._ A fag. _Just smoke a fag. Makes you look good._ Where are the fags? Where are—

“I go to bars and pick blond boys with cute little arses.” He can hear his own voice. Why can he hear his own voice? Fuck, is he speaking? Is his mouth moving? “Most of them are bitches, really, can’t even say thank you for the piña colada, or, pardon, the _armies_ of piña coladas I got them before they let me touch their arse because they’re so busy being prissy—”

Fuck, fuck, where are the fags, why are they gone, why did he smoke so much, _why is he still speaking?_

“—and they’re actually cats, you know, those blondies I pick up, and the latest I’ve had must be a fuckin’ maine coon or something because my back feels like I’ve been flogged and—”

He is very decidedly and very dreadfully out of fags.

“Right,” Roxas says, interrupting him. His eyes are blue and his mouth is flat and his body is turned away from Axel and he’s walking towards the door. _Right_. The door. Which one opens and steps through and closes again to disappear on the other side. “Right,” Roxas says again, and his hand is on the handle, and Axel’s heart is trying to kill itself by attempting to detonate itself with all the tightness. Possibly it is also trying to kill itself by keeling over from sheer exhaustion, the way it keeps banging and banging and banging away like some speed train off-track.

“—I never said I don’t like maine coons, did I?” Axel says, half-hysterical, his mouth betraying him again. “I think they’re fab. Ace, really.”

Banging away. Banging away.

Roxas is staring at him. His hand is still on the door handle. He hasn’t left. Yet.

The half-hysterical turns to half-out of his mind. “I really want a maine coon of my own,” Axel says, wanting to shoot himself. His eyes feel suspiciously dry. “A fierce one. I like them fierce.”

Roxas is still staring. As though he could possibly read between the lines.

And then he turns away, says, “Right,” again, and, “Good luck finding that one then,” as though he could possibly hear Axel’s heartbeat going certain kinds of certified insane, as though he knew what it meant and is disgusted by it.

Axel has never hated a sound more than a door closing.

Well, except for Roxas, maybe.

He hates Roxas a whole fucking lot.


End file.
